


Rituals

by stellarpoint



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Jim Ruins Everything, Little bit of angst, Memories, The Great Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:12:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarpoint/pseuds/stellarpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tender moment remembered and shattered by Jim Moriarty, along with everything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rituals

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick thought, no Beta or Britpick.

“Here Johnny, I’ll tuck you in.”

He could remember his mother sighing the words into his ear after a long shift at the hospital, coming slowly awake to gentle fingers threaded into his hair, scratching at his scalp in a way that made him stretch all the way out and wriggle his toes. He’d fallen asleep in front of the telly again, and it flicked garish greens and blues across white walls and olive Watson skin, highlighting the tired lines at the corners of his mother’s big blue eyes. 

He smiled at her drowsily as he blinked the sleep from his eyes, and she echoed it, coming alive crouched on the floor in front of him.

His mother was a beautiful woman—for all that she’d aged prematurely with worry—still blonde-haired, with fierce eyes and kind hands. The set of her mouth was strained, but genuinely pleased, and Harry looked so much like her that sometimes John thought his older sister couldn’t possibly be so bad.

Of course, then she’d tease him about bandaging the heads back onto her Barbie dolls, and he’d remember that he hated her fiercely, anyway.

His mother’s fingers were warm as they traced his hairline, hands settling to cup his face and brush his cheeks with her thumbs before she murmured, “Come on, up with you then.” No louder than a whisper. She coaxed John’s nine-year-old form to his feet, and only chuckled a little when he shuddered at the blanket’s disappearing warmth and cleaved to her side in an instant.

The hardwood floors were frigid under his bare feet, and he stumbled against his mother’s gait like a newborn colt, trying to touch as little of the floor as possible and still make progress. When they got to his room he was only too happy to dive into his bed, burrowing under his comforter and twisting to look up at his mum with the covers tucked neatly under his chin.

“I tried to stay up.” He murmured into the dark, guilt creeping at the corners of his mind even as his mother brushed hair back from his forehead, the corners of her lips curling in an almost-smile.

“I know. You were supposed to be in bed, little monster.”

John smiled at the term of endearment, wiggling against his mattress until his mother chuckled and began stuffing handfuls of comforter under him, cocooning him close and tight, until there was nothing but warmth, and soft, and _good_.

This was what safe was. This was what home was.

“I love you, Johnny.” She crooned quietly in the dark.

A kiss was pressed reverently to his forehead.

 

But this time it was not his mother’s lips, or his mother’s hands. It was not home, and it was most certainly not safe. It was a stranger in a designer suit, in a building that smelled strongly of chlorine, and underneath lingeringly of mildew. 

A stranger who had no business touching him. None at all.

John recoiled against delighted chuckles and quick fingers, but they hooked a headset onto his ear anyway, his hands no help in fending the man off, as they were handcuffed behind his back. There was only the cold hammered steel of a bench beneath him, holding him helpless. No warmth left in the world. His mind whirled endlessly—it tried, and tried, and tried, to think of an escape.

But there was none, just as the happy Irish lilt had promised.  
There was nothing but cold certainty.

“Now, you’ll be a good little boy and repeat everything I say word for word, won’t you? I shouldn’t like to go blowing us all up right away after all this trouble!” For all that ' _Jim from IT_ ' laughed, it was the void in his eyes that John trusted. The deep emptiness that promised unspeakable things—dead like he’d so often seen in war—with just a glint of madness shining in the browns of his eyes, taunting, screaming, _Catch me if you can!_

John nodded roughly, dragging his chin nearly to his chest as Moriarty grinned with delight.

“I wish everyone were as good a sport as you. I really do.”

It didn’t feel like a compliment, and John glared with every spark of hatred that flared in his chest. Every vain hope of escape. Every ridiculous wish that Sherlock wouldn’t show, not here, not now, not ever. He poured his heart into his hatred, and he fancied that when Moriarty looked back at him, he found dead blue eyes waiting, a perfect reflection tempered by rage instead of madness.

Jim’s lips curled, and he sing-songed, “Here Johnny, I’ll tuck you in.”

Nausea swam behind John’s eyelids at those familiar words as Moriarty leaned in, tightening the straps of the Semtex vest so that it hugged the contours of John’s chest and sides like a second skin. He even paused to tug the ridiculous parka tighter around him to cover it, long fingers stroking the fabric lovingly before pulling away with a broad smile.

“Do you hear that?”

John cocked his head to the sound of a door smacking open and then shut, eyes slipping closed involuntarily as he inhaled one last deep breath with Sherlock’s word’s ringing through the building.

“Brought you a little getting to know you present!”

Jim’s fingers tangled in the chain of the handcuffs around John’s wrists, pulling him to his feet and unlocking them unreasonably slowly. Savoring. John was drawn close enough that warm breath caressed the shell of his ear, almost caught in a lover’s embrace as the madman whispered, “Showtime!”

As he was shoved through the changing room stall his last thoughts were of safety, of home, and how if things went wrong, neither of them would have it ever again.


End file.
